Instant Coffee
by caylender
Summary: Drip. Drip. Drop. There's nothing more awkward than listening to the placeholder for the conversation you need to have. Drip. Drip. Drop. Shield drabble


So here's a little drabble that was bugging me because of captainbartholomew. It's her fault, except not really. I misread the title for Internal Conflict as Instant Coffee, and I remarked how I didn't remember her writing anything by that name. She was like noooo...so as a result, I had to write something about instant coffee. So if you haven't read Internal Conflict, get to reading it, son.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own Seth Rollins, Dean Ambrose, Roman Reigns, or TLC; they belong to the WWE. I don't even own Mr. Coffee.

 **AN:** This takes place after TLC in 2013.

* * *

The constant drip of the freshly brewed drops hitting the small pool that was already accumulated in the Mr. Coffee machine consisted of the only noise in the hotel room. It was a steady

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Seth studied the small ripples that formed on the surface of the caffeinated beverage. The rate of the brewing beverage was painfully slow; the coffee only filling a quarter of the pot. Seth glared at the pot, annoyed that the hotel staff didn't properly clean out the valves in the machine to ensure its optimal performance. Then he mentally chided himself; he was really trying to place his frustration somewhere else.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Seth couldn't believe they had lost a handicap match last night. Three on one. The Shield versus CM Punk. In all honesty, they should have won, easily. Easily. Hands down. Very little effort. Vicious beat down. Pinfall in ONE TWO THREE.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

But they hadn't. They had lost. He said it last night after the match to Dean and Roman, and he'll repeat it; Punk wasn't better than them. No, Punk was just lucky. Every dog has his day; Punk's day had been last night at TLC.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

What really worried Seth was what was brewing between his brothers. Seth had thought he had gotten through to his brothers the previous night when they were backstage after their match, but he had been wrong. Since each member of the Shield awoke that morning, an uncomfortable silence lingered among the brothers. Seth wasn't sure if it was so much the loss the night before, or if it was the miscommunication between the brothers, or it was still the lingering tension and doubt that was the aftereffects of Punk's mind games...

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Seth glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Despite the fact that the Lunatic Fringe was currently sitting down on the edge of one of the beds, he was still in motion. His fingers drummed a steadily inconsistent beat on his collarbone, his right foot bounced up and down, and his eyes shifted between narrowing into a glare at the coffee machine and relaxing again. His taping fingers stilled to briefly rub at his ribs. Seth quickly jerked his eyes back to the coffee pot when he saw Dean's frown deepen, and his head begin to turn to look at him.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

On the other hand, Roman was entirely still. His hair, still wet from his shower, hung down over his shoulders and fell into his face. His eye looked as awful as ever: still slightly swollen and still sort of red. If it wasn't for the fact that Seth could see the steady movement of his chest as he breathed evenly, Seth would have sworn that his comrade had transformed into a stone statue. As it was, Roman's eyes never moved from the still brewing drops of coffee, steadily falling in a constant

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Occasionally, Dean would throw offended looks in Roman's direction; however, he hadn't brought up that spear that Roman had accidentally hit Dean with. And thank God for that, Seth didn't know if he could listen to Dean's constant complaints that bordered on whining.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

But then again, maybe the sound of Dean wondering if he looked like a target for a Samoan brother to spear would be better than the stifling silence that's only broken by the steady

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Seth wondered what Roman was thinking about. Surely, he felt some guilt over spearing Dean instead of Punk. Maybe he was ruminating over the embarrassment of losing a handicap match (that had been in their favor!)… Personally, that was something he was more than a little ashamed of, but it was a fluke. (It was a total fluke!) A fluke that could easily be forgotten with a little effort by talking it out. And yet, there was nothing; no one was doing any talking.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Seth couldn't figure out what to say. The climate was so heavy, so awkward. He wasn't sure if he would be helping or hindering. Roman and Dean were way too stubborn. Then again, the idea of a three-and-a-half hour drive in the silence was intolerable.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Seth opened his mouth to say something, anything really when a solid

BEEP BEEP BEEP

interrupted him.

Three pairs of eyes swiveled to the Mr. Coffee machine.

Then nothing.

Silence.

Not even the steady distraction of the drops hitting the pot filled the room.

* * *

 **AN:** I'd love for you to leave a review. :)


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